“Wait a moment, rider,” a new voice called. “You’ve dropped something.”
Against her better judgment, Kate stopped and glanced behind her. The speaker rode beside Corwin, atop another of her father’s horses. A hunting falcon perched on the man’s shoulder, its head covered in a black hood. Kate didn’t recognize the nobleman, with his black hair and bronzed complexion. His tunic of soft, slick wool dyed red and trimmed in gold piping bore no insignia. He was pointing at the ground in front of the horses with an amused expression.
Kate’s gaze shifted to the glow rising up from the cobblestones. The moonbelt. She touched her skirt pocket, hoping she was mistaken, but only fabric met her hand. A blush heated her neck, inching upward.
“Is that yours?” the nobleman asked.
Kate stooped to retrieve the moonbelt, returning it to her pocket with fingers gone clumsy. Whispers from the crowd reached her ears, coaxing her blush to spread. Trying to ignore them, she stood up straight and raised her head.
She had nothing to be ashamed of. She was no longer the kind of girl who needed to worry about reputation. So what if she might have a “plaything,” as Signe put it. So what if she might seek physical comfort and pleasure. This was who she was. Kate Brighton. Rider for the Relay.
I am Traitor Kate, she thought, drawing strength from the name for once.
“Thank you, my lord.” Relieved at how steady she sounded, Kate bowed again.
The man’s grin widened. To her annoyance, he was every bit as handsome as the prince. A magestone glistened in his left ear, and she wondered what the magic in it was concealing.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “And best of luck to you on all your endeavors—both work and leisure.”
Several in the crowd laughed at the innuendo, and the falcon on the man’s shoulder shifted nervously at the noise. Kate risked a glance at Corwin. His expression was inscrutable, but cold fire seemed to burn in his eyes.
Once again Kate considered using her magic. She could spook all the horses, reducing this band of noblemen to a gaggle of fools trying to stay astride. No one would know. Horses spooked all the time, for all sorts of reasons.
Then she spotted the master magist riding at the back of the procession, his face obscured behind the full white mask. His blue robes marked him a member of the defensive order, one of the most powerful and dangerous. Like all the magists in every order—blue, green, brown, red, white, and gold—he carried a mace, its head embedded with magestones, including one that would flare into life in the presence of wilder magic.
Fear doused her anger as quickly as cold water on hot steel. Never use your gift where someone can see, Katie girl, she heard her father saying as clearly as if he were standing beside her now. She couldn’t believe how close she’d come to doing it. If she had, this disaster of a day would’ve turned into something much worse.
As if to emphasize this truth, the loud clang of the bells sounded, chiming the arrival of the eighth hour. She was officially late. Kate allowed herself one last dark look at the prince, then turned and walked away, feeling as if something inside her had broken.
Yes, this morning had indeed come too early. She wished it had never come at all.
3
Corwin
PRINCE CORWIN SIGHED IN RELIEF when he and his escort arrived at Farhold’s southern gates without further incident. Two massive owl statues, the symbol of Farrah, patron goddess of Farhold, perched atop either side of the gates, their wings raised toward one another to form an archway through which visitors would exit. The wall of this remote city was among the most impressive in all of Rime. Fifty feet tall and ten feet thick, it boasted iron reinforcements at every measure.
Even more impressive than the size of the wall was the number of wardstone embrasures built into it. Hardly more than four feet existed between each one and its neighbor. Farhold’s forefathers had taken the defense of the city against nightdrakes very seriously. If a bit optimistically, Corwin thought. There might be an abundance of embrasures, but only one in three currently bore active wardstones. The enchanted rocks glowed with varying levels of intensity, some bright as the full moon and others hardly visible in the morning sun. He wondered if the city had ever possessed enough wealth to keep an active wardstone in every embrasure. The sight would be something to behold, the entire place luminescent with magic.
He wished for that distraction now—anything to block the memories intruding into his mind. Kate Brighton was here, in Farhold. The knowledge made him tense. He’d never dreamed he would see her again, no matter how many times his thoughts had turned to her over the past three years—questions of where she was, how she was faring.
Does she ever think of me?
It seemed he finally had his answers, to at least some of those questions.
Traitor Kate, they call her. A terrible mix of regret and guilt squeezed his chest. She was as beautiful as he remembered—raven-black hair, skin sun-kissed to a golden hue, and large, large eyes, the color of amber. But older. Aged. She’d been sixteen the last time he’d seen her, himself just a year ahead. She is nineteen now, he realized, a woman. He remembered the vivacious girl she’d been before, quick to laugh and to speak her mind, with the swift temper of a sudden summer storm. Now she seemed thin and worn—hard. Like leather boiled until all the soft suppleness was leached from it.
Doubtless the years had not been kind to her. Once, her prospects had been guaranteed. She’d been born into the gentry: those of the lesser nobility who possessed no title, only land. With her father being master of horse to the high king, her family had both wealth and respect. Until the day Hale Brighton tried to murder Corwin’s father. Now Kate’s prospects went no further than her next ride. Being a Relay rider was a respectable profession, at least, if a dangerous one.
Or maybe the years have not been that hard, he considered, remembering the moonbelt. It was an expensive piece, one bestowed on her from some wealthy lover, perhaps, maybe even a husband. Jealousy prickled inside him, and he shoved everything out of his mind once and for all. Kate Brighton is not my concern.
Corwin turned his attention to the fine, bright morning. Now that they were outside the city, a faint breeze kept the heat at bay. And it was blessedly quiet, the noisome trumpeters left behind at the gate. Of all the annoyances he had to endure during this peacekeeping tour his elder brother had forced him on, the trumpets were the worst. They were so piercingly loud and pretentious, he could barely stomach even the idea of them. And yet he had to endure it. Everywhere he went, there they were, ready to give proclamation of his presence. I’m lucky they don’t announce my trips to the privy.
It was all so absurd. These people looked on him like he was someone who mattered, who could change their lives. He wasn’t. His brother, Edwin, was the prince who could do that, a fact they would come to accept in time, as he finally had.
Farmland lined both sides of the main road leading away from Farhold. To the left, rough, sturdy fences marked individual fields, penning in cattle, sheep, or goats. The animals would graze through the day, until the shepherds herded them back into their pens and stables inside the city shortly before dusk. The next morning they would return to graze again. To the right of the road, neatly partitioned plots held crops of every kind—soybeans, corn, wheat, even cotton.